


Three Days (The Rebuilding the Temple Remix)

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grimmauld Place, M/M, Remix, ootp-era, reunionating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-05
Updated: 2004-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems they have both learned to hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days (The Rebuilding the Temple Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to Jen, Pete/Melissa, Dot, and Meg. Thanks to Laura, Gail and Bow for the beta. Written for Remix/Redux II, based on "Three Days" by Kest.

**Day One**

_[T]hat feeble light in London, neither night nor day but rather that feeble compromise which [...] filled one with a sense of long-forgotten things and showed itself to be that time when vague yearnings and regrets began to cumber the soul._ ~Alexander Theroux

To say that Sirius is bored is an understatement of such massive proportions it is not even worth saying at all. It is also a very poor argument to make if he's trying to convince Dumbledore that he can be careful, prudent, thoughtful -- all the things he's never been, but is willing to learn if it means he can leave this house, even for an hour.

He realizes, of course, that the whole situation is his fault. His guilt brings him up short whenever he begins railing at Remus for being able to come and go as he pleases. He sees the lines on Remus's face, the grey in his hair, and he blames himself, though he knows Remus does not. At least, not where he can see.

When Harry and the Weasleys were here, he could at least pretend to be useful, even if seeing Harry every day was a shock he still hasn't quite got over. James and yet not, Lily's eyes green and clear behind the familiar smudged lenses. Harry needs him, and he can _do_ this, this filling in for James. He's sure of it, even if sometimes he doesn't know what to say, or says too much. He takes his cues from Remus's expression, though he doesn't think Remus is aware of how much he's relying on him, how much he's always relied on him.

They're alone in the house most days, except for Buckbeak and Kreacher. Order members visit, but they don't have much to say to him. They save most of their conversation for Remus, and he takes their messages when Remus is out.

On good days, he is amused at the reversal in their roles this time around; on bad days, he is disdainful of being reduced to a messenger, though he is beginning to understand how much they all rely on Remus, and he's alternately jealous and pleased. Either way, he appreciates the irony.

Remus has been gone a while, and Sirius thinks longingly of Muggle London, fish and chips and pints of Bass, or a really good chicken tikka masala, the tang of ginger, cumin and tomatoes on his tongue. He'd even be willing to wear the ugly tweed jacket they'd dug out of a trunk in the attic, which makes Remus look as if he's an impoverished schoolteacher. Which, Sirius realizes, he is.

The idea that Remus taught at Hogwarts -- that he actually became Professor Lupin -- is so foreign and amazing that Sirius can't quite believe it's true. And that he lost the job, yet another loss Moony suffered on his behalf, angers him, though Remus would never blame him.

He tries to read, tries to settle down, but ends up where he ends up every night -- in his mother's room, caring for Buckbeak.

He imagines she'd be insulted, even though Buckbeak is far nobler than she ever was. It amuses him, though he knows he's being childish.

The hippogriff isn't fond of captivity either, and Sirius finds his presence comforting, knowing there's at least one other creature in the house who understands how he feels, even if they can't actually talk about it.

He's brushing the hippogriff's hindquarters, and Buckbeak is purring with enjoyment, when he feels eyes on him.

"Remus." Remus is in the doorway, and he smiles when Sirius notices him. It is the same smile Sirius recalls from their younger days, and it warms him. "When did you get back?" His hand pauses mid-stroke. Buckbeak's eyes flutter open at this abrupt halt to his grooming. Catching sight of Remus, he inclines his feathered head aristocratically, as if he hasn't just been practically vibrating with contentment. Remus returns the greeting solemnly, one regal creature to another.

"Just now," Remus says. "I met Kreacher on the stairs. He told me you were up here."

"Hmph." 

"You never told me your brother hunted werewolves." Remus's mouth quirks in a half-grin, and Sirius knows Remus is trying to distract him.

He snorts. "A likely story. Regulus wouldn't even go near the hunting dogs my father kept. Shrieked like a girl whenever they were let in the cellar in bad weather. I doubt he'd ever even seen a werewolf." Sirius feels his lips twitch. "Except you, of course."

"I have to say, I'm relieved to hear it." Remus leans against the doorjamb, and Sirius notices how tired he looks -- how much greyer and older than his thirty-five years. He wishes there were something he could do -- some way to turn back the years, unmake all the bad decisions, so he doesn't have to see the strain on Remus's face, the slump of his shoulders.

He can feel himself being pulled down into the darkness, and taking Remus with him (not that he'd mind the darkness so much if Remus were there, but he's already stolen the light from Remus's eyes too many times; Remus deserves better), so he shakes himself out of it, casting about for something to say.

"You missed Kingsley. He left an hour ago."

"What did he want?"

Sirius shrugs. "Dropped off a roll of parchment for you. I took it down to the library." 

"What was it?" 

Sirius shrugs a second time. "Reports." 

He remembers the reports, the lists of possible recruits for the Order, and the lists of probable Death Eaters needing investigation. He remembers seeing Regulus's name pop up on one of the latter, remembers adding Remus's name toward the end, and then erasing it so forcefully he ripped a hole in the parchment. He couldn't erase his suspicions then, can't erase his mistakes now.

Remus straightens, and Sirius speaks before he can leave. "How did your meeting go?"

Remus's mouth twists, and Sirius's stomach along with it. "Not well."

He turns back to Buckbeak, who sighs in relief as Sirius resumes grooming him. "Nathan Brick's a coward," he says. It's not Remus's failure, and Sirius wants him to know that. "He was a coward when we were in school. I imagine he hasn't changed much."

"He's a good man," Remus says, and Sirius can hear the desperation behind it. He wonders who Remus is trying to convince.

"You remember how he was at Hogwarts. No backbone."

"He's concerned about his family. And rightly so." 

Sirius ignores him. "We can do better. The Order can do better." Buckbeak squawks at a particularly rough swipe of the brush, and Sirius pats him apologetically. "Besides," he says, catching Remus's eyes, wanting to make him understand, "we have enough members already. Why do we need more?"

"We can always use more people, Sirius." Remus frowns at him and Sirius is reminded that Remus is no longer the quiet boy whose objections he and James used to casually dismiss. "We don't want to be outnumbered as severely as last time if we can help it. We're fighting a war, or we will be soon, despite what the Ministry thinks."

Sirius shrugs again. Remus is right, but he dislikes having strangers about, knowing his business. He knows his lack of trust was costly; he knows it stems in part from his family -- he left them a long time ago, but he's a Black, and always will be. It's in his blood and his bones, as much as he'd like to deny it. Trust has never come easy to him.

"I just think," he begins, attempting tact for once, because he wants Remus on his side, "that we need to be more careful about who we let into the Order. Anyone could be working for the other side. There's no way for us to know. Take Snape, for instance---"

Remus cuts him off. "You know he's loyal."

"I _don't_ know that. Neither do you. Not so long ago he was taking orders from Voldemort. Do we really need that kind of risk? I just think---"

"It isn't 'not so long ago,' Sirius," Remus interrupts, his voice edged with irritation. "He's been on our side for a while now. It's been fourteen years." 

Sirius, shocked and hurt, stiffens and turns away, trying to hide his reaction. He forgets, sometimes, that fourteen years have passed, that Snape is on their side, that Harry is a teenager. That he suspected Remus for no good reason he can recall.

The one thing Sirius never forgets is that James is dead, and Peter betrayed him. He never forgets it's his fault.

And even if he could, Remus wouldn't let him.

It's not that Remus says anything, would ever say anything. But his presence is always a reminder; loss is written in the lines of his face, the grey of his hair, the tired way his shoulders slump under a weight no one should have had to bear alone.

Sirius strokes Buckbeak's head, calming himself, calming the skittish hippogriff, who is attuned to his moods from all the time they've spent together. The darkness is spinning up to meet him, and it's an effort not to sink down into it.

He wonders if Remus defends Snape because he remembers what it's like to be considered a suspect, and he feels a sharp pang of self-loathing.

"I'll be in the library," Remus says after the silence becomes awkward.

Sirius nods but doesn't turn around. He can't bear to see Remus's disappointment again. 

Remus is gone, and another chance to speak goes with him.

Sirius closes his eyes, rests for a moment against Buckbeak's solid strength. How many chances has he used? How many has he lost? 

He remembers charming his teachers, his friends, even his parents on rare occasions, with easy words and blithe assurances. _Just give me another chance. Please. It'll never happen again._

It always did, and they always knew it would. He grabbed those second, third, ninth, hundredth chances with both hands and pissed them away without thought. 

He's had a long time to learn the taste of regret.

He knows the argument was his fault, and when he finishes up with Buckbeak, he heads to the library to apologize. He moves slowly through the house, which hasn't changed in the twenty years he's been gone. He could walk it blindfolded and still know where every creaky board is, and still find all the places he hid as a child. But it holds secrets yet, even from him, and the library houses many of them. The library, the cellars, the small rooms of the attic underneath the ornately gabled roof, packed with the detritus of generations of Blacks -- he and Remus will be exploring them all in the coming days.

As much as he hates being here, and as much as he misses Harry and the noise and bustle of the Weasleys, he is glad to have some time alone with Remus. Yet another thing he's wasted too much of, something else he can't get back.

Their friendship is already on the mend, and he hopes that, with a little luck and perhaps Remus's unending generosity, they will have more, as well. They were always on the verge of more, but they never saw it through. Too young, too scared, too bloody stupid to admit that what they'd had was more than casual, was as true and strong as the love between James and Lily, if less socially acceptable.

He knows fourteen years is a long time, that Remus has probably moved on, their youthful liaison long-forgotten, relegated to the store of memories best left in the past.

But he's always been an optimist, and since he's been out of Azkaban, he has remembered how to hope.

When he reaches the library, Remus is dozing at what was once his father's desk, parchment spread beneath long, elegant fingers. He doesn't look comfortable, but Sirius is loath to wake him.

In the flickering lamplight, the lines of Remus's face are softened, making him look like the young man he was fifteen years ago. He was never good-looking the way Sirius was, but he had -- has -- a quiet strength about him, a stealthy beauty that presents itself only upon close and careful study. 

Sirius has been studying him for a long time now.

He notes the changes -- a scar above his upper lip, the fan-shaped lines around his eyes, the grey in his hair. The years haven't been easy and it shows on his body. But Sirius also notices the quiet confidence, the easy authority he wears like a second skin now, one that fits as if he were born to it, unlike when they were younger, and the prefect's badge was an unwanted burden rather than an honor.

Sirius could stand and stare at Remus all night, and be content, but Remus is only dozing, and he wakes with a start.

Sirius opens his mouth to apologize, but instead, he says, "I'm off to bed." He feels ungainly, awkward in his own skin, his own house, which has never been his at all. Which reminds him. "I thought tomorrow we could tackle the wine cellar." 

They've cleaned most of the house of all major spelltraps and lurking creatures, but they'd left the cellar with a general protection spell over its entrance. Everyone else was too busy with other things, and Sirius is fairly certain there will be something nasty skulking down there, lying in wait for them; he'd wanted to handle it himself, but Remus convinced him to wait before tackling it.

Now, it will give them both something to do, and Sirius is grateful for any distraction.

Remus nods. "Did you read Kingsley's report?"

"Yeah." He leans against the doorjamb, not sure of his welcome, but also remembering when his father sat behind that desk, stern-faced and cold, reprimanding him over some wrong he'd committed against the Noble and Ancient Name of Black. "It's not getting any better, is it," he says flatly.

"It will," Remus says. "It has to." And Sirius is surprised, because Remus was always a pessimist. It seems they have both learned to hope.

Sirius opens his mouth and closes it, taking a moment to think of what he wants to say, but nothing comes. Remus looks as if he understands, though, so it's okay. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sirius says, "See you in the morning." 

Remus nods and turns back to his paperwork as Sirius heads upstairs to sit on his bed and wait until the house settles down for the night.

He chose Great-Aunt Araminta's room when they moved in, unable to face the utter sterility of the room that was his as a boy (the walls laid bare of his posters and personality, papered in dull grey and carpeted a green so dark it may as well be black). But he often sleeps in the kitchen, curled up as Padfoot on the bright rug Molly Weasley laid down in front of the fireplace, the warmth of the hearth easing the ever-present chill in his bones.

The house was bespelled long ago for temperature control, but it has never been warm. Sirius isn't sure if that's because of some architectural flaw or simply the product of so much dark magic concentrated in one place for so long. He imagines it's the latter, because sometimes he feels as though he will never be warm, that the chill of Azkaban has settled permanently into his bones, and Grimmauld Place is nothing but Azkaban writ small, with the bitter pains of childhood lurking in every shadowed corner with no respite.

Some nights, he lingers outside the room where Remus sleeps, occasionally as a man, but usually as a dog, famed Gryffindor courage deserting him in the face of almost certain rejection. He doesn't even have the right words for an apology; he can't imagine attempting to discuss his feelings, past or present, even if he were sure Remus would welcome the conversation, which he isn't.

He waits, flipping through Aunt Araminta's dusty old books -- he vaguely recalls a sharp-faced old woman who always smelled of mold and firewhisky. She had a penchant for heavy tomes on Arithmancy, but he's found a volume of naughty verse tucked behind the maths texts, and it amuses him while he waits for Remus to finish up and go to bed.

After an hour or so, Sirius slips down the stairs on padded feet, canine eyes sharper than human in the midnight gloom of the house. Remus has been sleeping in one of the small bedrooms off the library lately, instead of in the guestroom next to Sirius's, so he has to be careful not to get caught in the morning; he has no excuse for being here, after all, and the truth is too embarrassing to admit.

The library is dark, and with a mournful sigh, Padfoot curls up against the closed door to Remus's room, and sleeps.

***

**Day Two**

_Leave the dead years to silence and to dust,_  
 _And close again the long unopened door._  
 _In a Garret_ \- Elizabeth Akers Allen

Sirius is used to being thwarted by the house, but this is different -- newer, cleaner magic.

And anyway, his father had never locked up the wine cellar. He and Regulus used to hide down there when his mother had one of her moods, and it wasn't as if their parents cared if they drank at an early age -- his father had actually encouraged it as fine, manly behavior -- so long as they didn't do anything to damage the family name.

He pulls at the hatch to the cellar, swearing when it won't open under the full strength of his arm.

"Goddamn motherfucking sealing spell. Who put this on, anyway?"

Remus sits back on his heels, looking vaguely amused at the string of obscenities Sirius continues to mumble. He has to admit, it is kind of funny. He remembers being proud of his lexicon of swear words, and of learning new ones every summer to impress James when they returned to school.

"Alastor, I think."

"Figures. That man has a mind like a rat trap."

"He is thorough," Remus answers with a wry smile. 

"But I think we can take this off without his help." Sirius points to the far side of the hatch, to a faded scuff mark that almost seems a natural part of the wooden floorboards. It's not, and Sirius knows Remus will feel the pull of magic the way he himself does. "Feel that?" Remus slides over to the mark and nods. "I think if we dismantle that part of the spell, the rest should follow," Sirius continues.

Remus takes out his wand and pokes at the mark, sending up a shower of sparks.

Sirius watches, ready to come to his aid if he needs it. 

Remus's brow furrows in concentration, and Sirius remembers that look -- Remus wore it often when they were younger, wore it while studying, while working on the map, while researching obscure magical theory, while he kissed his way down Sirius's body and took his cock in his mouth...

Remus's voice, muttering a vaguely familiar spell, breaks into Sirius's fantasy. He can see the strain on Remus's face now, lines around his mouth and eyes as he bends the charm to his will. Remus has always had an iron will; the spell doesn't stand a chance.

The spell breaks, rocking them both back on their heels, and melts away even as they watch.

"Shit. That was strong."

Remus grins and Sirius feels a slight thrill -- they're working together, just as they did as boys, and together they are an unstoppable team, even without James's vision guiding them.

"I hope whatever's down there is a little easier to manage," Remus says, but he's still smiling, and Sirius returns his grin.

"We can handle it," he says, running his hands over the cool wood before grasping the rusted handle. It creaks in protest when he pulls on it, and Remus moves beside him to help. "I have no idea when this was last opened," he adds, staring down at the still-closed hatch.

Remus looks around thoughtfully. "Maybe we should seal the room first. We don't want anything getting into the rest of the house."

"Good idea. I'll do that. You see if you can hear anything." He goes to the doorway and murmurs the strongest spell he can recall, keying it to himself and Remus, so they won't have to undo and redo it every time they go in or out.

When he turns back to the hatch, he sees Remus has an ear pressed to it, his eyes closed and his breathing deep and rhythmic, brow furrowed again. Sirius is a little disturbed at how arousing he finds the expression, even in situations like this.

"Anything?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

Remus rises and shakes his head. "Either there's nothing there, or I just can't sense anything through the wood. Or it's very good at hiding."

"Who knows what my father might have hidden down there?" Sirius says, grinning again. It's easier to make jokes about his family's propensity for dark magic when he and Remus are slipping into a good working rhythm, when he can almost forget that they haven't been together like this in almost fifteen years. He crosses back to the hatch, leaning down to grasp the handle again. "I'll open this. You be ready for anything that comes out."

He rolls his shoulders once, raises an eyebrow at Remus, who nods in response, wand glowing in his hand, and slowly pulls open the hatch.

Stale air wafts out, and he wrinkles his nose. It is much as he remembered it, steep wooden stairs (but not quite steep enough to be a ladder; he and Regulus had used to chase each other up and down when they were very young, with the house-elves shrieking at them -- _be careful, young masters, youse is going to get hurt_ ) leading down into darkness, broken only by cobwebs glimmering silver in the light of Remus's wand.

It is a very quiet darkness, and they crouch down, listening, watching, waiting to see if anything will rise from it and attack.

Sirius points his wand and says, " _Aperio_." 

Nothing happens. 

They exchange a glance and a shrug.

"Well," Sirius says, lowering his wand. "So much for that." He feels his earlier good mood evaporating and scowls at the shadows below. "I suppose we'll have to go down just to be sure."

"We should," Remus agrees. He is already moving down the steps, the pale light at the end of his wand making no dent in the darkness.

Sirius is taken aback for a moment -- he's unused to Remus taking the lead. As boys, he and James were always out in front, with Peter ( _don't think of him now. Don't._ ) and Remus trailing after. He has always thought of Remus as the rearguard, ready to back him up. Now Remus has left him behind.

He shakes his head to clear it of such depressing thoughts. Remus, his face eerie in the pale blue wandlight, looks up at him from the stairs.

"All right there, Sirius?"

"Fine," he answers, making his way down the steps. Remus looks skeptical, but says nothing.

The cellar is much smaller than Sirius remembers -- there is less than a foot between the top of his head and the ceiling, and the concrete floor is covered in a thick layer of dust. His nose itches, but he resists the urge to rub at it. He holds his wand like a torch and, combined with the light from Remus's, he can see the wooden racks filled with wine bottles, all of it blanketed with dust.

"Seems deserted," he says, just to be saying something.

There is barely enough room for the two of them, and under other circumstances, he might have tried to turn the enforced closeness to his advantage, but the air is choked with dust and memory, and the light does not penetrate far into the inky darkness.

He slides past Remus to the racks, remembering his father's lessons. 

_"This is a 1961 Chateau Lafite Bordeaux -- not quite up to the 1945, but better than anything since then."_ His father smiled one of his rare, true smiles. _"Being a connoisseur of fine wine is the mark of a cultured man, Sirius, a true gentleman."_ He'd basked in his father's approval, wanted more of those smiles, and he'd eagerly absorbed the knowledge Orion Black had handed out. He was ten -- still a year away from the disgrace of being sorted into Gryffindor.

He recalls sitting at the long mahogany table in the dining room, a bewildering array of silverware set before him while his mother barked out courses and expected him to choose the right utensils. He remembers endless dinner parties at that same table, Bellatrix stabbing him in the thigh with her fork when he spoke out of turn at the age of eleven, Andromeda comforting him with sugar quills and sherbet lemons as they hid from the adults afterward.

He thinks of the first bottle he bought on his own, once he had money from Uncle Alphard -- a bottle of Dom Perignon he brought to James's house for Sunday brunch, and Mr. Potter's quickly hidden surprise when presented with it, Mrs. Potter's warm smile and gracious thanks.

He pulls a bottle from the rack, wipes it clean on the sleeve of his robes and looks at the label. A 1976 Burgundy that probably cost more money than Remus sees in a month. "My father always did have expensive tastes," he says sourly. 

Remus laughs. "Good thing we waited until after Mundungus was gone. I don't imagine there'd be much left after he was done." 

"No," Sirius says, wiping off another bottle, glancing at the label before replacing it and pulling out another, an idea forming. "But you could-- 

"Sirius!"

He starts, raising the bottle by the neck like a club, looking around wildly. Remus jumps forward and points to the shadow--creature, whatever it was--sliding up over the edge of the open hatch.

"What was that?" Sirius asks, lowering the bottle.

"I have no idea." Remus stands at the foot of the steps and peers upward at the square of light. "It's your house."

"Bollocks."

Remus sends him a tight grin, then steps up the bottom stair, craning his neck to see around the edge. "It's up there, whatever it is. Good thing you sealed the room."

Sirius moves to the step to stand beside him "It could have attacked me, but didn't. That's encouraging."

Remus's answering smile is wry. "Somehow I doubt it's friendly."

"I didn't mean that. It's just that we're at bit of a disadvantage." He nods at the narrow confines. "It helps to know it won't attack as soon as we show ourselves." He doesn't mention that it may not have attacked him because it somehow recognizes him as one of the family, possibly even the master of the house. He doesn't want to believe that, though he knows as surely as his mother did that being blasted off a tapestry doesn't remove the Black blood from his veins. 

And anyway, he's sure Remus has already thought of that, and is simply diplomatic enough not to bring it up.

Remus nods. "I'll go up first, try to get to the far side of the room. Perhaps we can catch it in crossfire."

"All right."

Remus climbs the stairs slowly, looking from side to side, searching for the shadow, Sirius at his back. He runs up the last few steps and backs up against the wall. Sirius follows.

The room seems deserted, only the ordinary shadows cast by the gas light overhead flicker on the walls.

He stills, and there, in the corner of his vision, he sees movement. He inclines his head toward the shadow and Remus nods -- he's seen it, as well. They circle closer, cautiously.

" _Stupefy_!" he says, catching the shadow dead on. But it only freezes for a moment before scuttling away, sliding around the room so quickly he can't tell where it's gone.

Remus is eyeing the ceiling speculatively. "Do you suppose it found a way out?" he asks.

Sirius shrugs. "The seal should have kept it in, but I've never seen anything like it. Who knows what it's able to do?"

"Can we get through the seal without taking it down? We should probably---"

Again, there's movement in his peripheral vision.

" _Petrificus Totalus_!" he and Remus shout simultaneously. Caught by the two spells, the shadow vibrates and then bursts in a shower of black sparks that fill the room, pieces of it falling to the floor and crumbling into dust.

They stare down at the remains. When Sirius looks up, he notices Remus has bits of it in his hair; Sirius shakes almost instinctively, as he would if he were Padfoot, to rid himself of any debris he may be wearing.

"That was interesting," he says when Remus eyes him askance.

"You don't suppose there are more of them, do you?" Remus casts a glance back at the cellar door.

"Likely there are." He sighs. "We should do some more research first, find a different spell."

Of one mind, they heave the hatch door forward until it falls with a crash and shake of the wooden boards.

He laughs, realizing he's still clutching the bottle of wine -- a 1978 Barbaresco. He has a sudden desire to taste it -- he imagines it will be full-bodied and bold on his tongue, and far better than the cheap firewhisky Dung has been supplying him with.

"I could do with a drink," he says, raising the bottle and glancing at Remus. Remus looks at his watch and Sirius shrugs sheepishly. Remus grins. There is mischief in them yet, though sometimes he feels older than Dumbledore.

"Should we replace the protection spell?" Remus asks.

"I keyed the seal on the door so that we could pass through. We can leave that up for now and do the rest of the cleanup later."

While Remus searches the cupboards for glasses, Sirius does a more thorough cleaning of the bottle. He remembers 1978 being a particularly good year for Italian reds. 

Remus hands him the corkscrew and he uncorks the bottle easily enough while Remus kindles a fire in the hearth, bright and warm and smelling of good things not often found in this house. 

Over the summer, they spent most of the time here in the kitchen, and echoes of the children linger, as well as Molly's homey touches -- the rug by the hearth, bright new curtains on the window over the sink, featuring some sort of vegetables.

He pours the wine, and offers a glass to Remus, who takes it and settles at the table. 

Sirius savors the bouquet, swirling the garnet liquid in the crystal glass and enjoying the way it sparkles in the firelight before taking a sip. Yes, 1978 was a good year, and for more than just wine.

"There might be something in the _Calamitus,_ " he says after swallowing. "Or Pimsey's _Dark Arts_." 

Remus nods. "A blanket spell, so we're not trying to pick them off one by one." He takes a sip of the wine. "Not bad."

"Not bad? That's a fine Italian Barbaresco you're drinking, mate."

Remus's mouth quirks in a half grin and Sirius realizes he is being teased. Of course Remus would remember his love of fine wine, the only thing of his father's he's kept.

He returns the smile, and settles across from Remus, turning his attention to the strange, shadowy creature they've just destroyed. 

"My father had a collection of spell books hidden in the library somewhere. I never could find them. Besides, I'm sure they're well protected. Not because they were dangerous, though half the spells in them are illegal, I'm sure. I think he just didn't want his grubby children getting their hands on them." 

"I've been meaning to ask Moody to go over the library," Remus says. "I haven't dared touch any of the books. There are some interesting titles, though. Your father was quite the collector." 

He grimaces. "My father was quite a lot of things." He'd loved his father, once -- tall and dark-haired and stern. Wanted to be like him, before he'd learned that Muggles weren't vermin, nor Muggleborns vile filth.

The Sorting Hat had seen something in him and put him in Gryffindor, and that slow, stunned walk to the Gryffindor table had been the first step in his long journey away from his father, his family, his name.

And still he's ended up back in this hellhole of a house, with no way out. He feels like a drowning man sometimes, memories of old anger mingling with new frustration at his uselessness to form a darkness closing over his head; he doesn't know how much longer he can keep kicking to the surface. 

He has to get out of the house.

"We're almost out of rats," he says with studied casualness, feeling Remus out. He was always able to talk him round when they were younger. "And Buckbeak's been giving me long-suffering looks. I don't think he cares much for them."

"I'm not sure we could bring in anything, er, larger."

He tries not to sound too eager. "It would be easiest to let him hunt for himself. We could arrange it so no one would notice."

Remus raises an eyebrow at him, reminding him yet again that they are no longer fifteen, and Remus won't go along just to keep peace. 

"Well then," he takes another sip of wine, "we need more rats."

"We can ask Mundungus. He didn't have any problems finding the last batch for us."

"Whatever."

Remus sinks back into his chair a little, tapping the side of his goblet idly, the tone pure and true. Sirius is glad they didn't use the ugly silver ones with the family crest on them. He'd been set on tossing them in the rubbish with everything else, but now he thinks he may let Mundungus sell them, after all. Perhaps he can give Moony the money. An early Christmas present.

They are silent for a few moments, and Sirius feels his bad mood threatening. He wonders if he can convince Remus to get him the ingredients for Polyjuice. He was always good at potions, and he's got nothing but time to spend, so he can wait the three weeks.

"I've been going over the recruitment files," Remus says before he can speak.

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. "No more Nathan Bricks, I hope."

Remus lets that pass. "There are a few other people I'd like to talk to." He takes another sip of wine. "Dumbledore has already approved them."

Sirius pushes back his chair, the scrape of wood on the wood floor startling in the silence of the house. He moves to the sink, restless. This is what Remus does -- it is one of the things Dumbledore keeps him around to do. Because Remus, despite his shabby appearance and the now-public nature of his condition, is someone people instinctively respect and trust. He's also a much better judge of character than he used to be; Sirius knows his own past lapses in that area probably have something to do with that.

"Then why are you asking me? You don't need my permission." He opens a few cupboards, shuts them in disgust. "Don't we have any food in this house?"

"In the larder. Molly dropped some off a few days ago. And I wasn't asking your permission." Remus, as always, is calm and reasonable. Sometimes Sirius hates him for it.

Sirius opens the larder and rummages around, making more noise than he needs to because he wants to make sure Remus knows he's irritated. 

"Cheese. And a stew of some sort." He peers down at the latter suspiciously. It's definitely stew, but he can't identify the ingredients on sight, and that bothers him more than it should, considering how much time he's spent eating rats. 

"Pheasant," Remus says. "Molly put a preserve spell on it. And there should be bread in there, too."

Sirius dumps the stew in the cauldron above the fire and carries the cheese and a small loaf of bread over to the table. He takes a deep breath and makes the effort to hang onto the mellow mood the wine has inspired. Then he turns and grins at Remus, sliding into the chair next to him. 

"I know you weren't. I was simply pointing it out." He offers the cheese to Remus, who breaks off a piece and studies it as if he's never seen cheese before.

Remus, Sirius recalls, had some odd notions about how food should be eaten when they were children. He didn't like his food to touch on his plate, and he ate one thing at a time -- first the meat, then the starch and lastly, the vegetables. He wasn't fond of vegetables as a child; Sirius remembers him muttering about how terribly they smelled and why couldn't he survive on chips and chocolate, anyway? At the thought his grin widens to a smile.

Sirius hasn't noticed if he still eats that way, or if that's changed as well. So much has changed, and sometimes he thinks he'll never catch up. Sometimes he thinks he doesn't want to.

Remus is saying something, but Sirius isn't listening, he's remembering the last time, the desperation, the close quarters, the nights spent poring over letters and reports, trying to crack Voldemort's codes with seventh-year magic and a few reference books stacked on the floor. They were lucky to even find time to eat, much less cook anything.

"At least the food is better this time," he says. Remus nods, and Sirius continues, "Sturgis filled the place with rotten eggs trying to find a spell for omelets. I swear the smell lingered for days."

Remus looks down at his hands and Sirius wonders if he remembers. 

They'd had to sleep on the roof that night, the damp spring air like warm velvet against bare skin. He and Remus had lain six inches apart, yet it had felt like six miles, because even with silencing charms and the reassuring sound of everyone else sleeping, they couldn't do more than furtively brush legs or fingers. Sirius had promised himself that night -- he'd lain awake, watching the stars wheel overhead and fade into morning -- that he was going to tell Remus how he felt, and stop letting things get in the way.

Of course, he hadn't. There had been too much to do, too many things that were more important, and he'd believed there would always be time. He'd never doubted they would triumph over Voldemort, even when he'd begun doubting Remus's loyalty.

He won't make the same mistakes this time, he tells himself fiercely, remembering the feel of Remus's long, callused fingers entwined with his as the night passed into daylight.

He swallows hard, attempts to regain the smile he'd just been wearing. No time like the present, and he's never been a coward.

"You know, I'd really like--"

"The stew's ready," Remus says lightly. 

Sirius glances over at the cauldron, which is bubbling fiercely, fragrant steam filling the air. "So it is." He moves to the fireplace, stirs the stew and thinks of another way to approach the subject. He knows if he keeps at it long enough, Remus will give in with a long-suffering sigh and let him speak his piece. "I was going to say--" he begins again, only to be interrupted by the loud crack of someone Apparating into the kitchen.

Moody is standing there, his eye whirling dizzily before he straightens it with a grimace. "Let myself in," he says gruffly. "Thought I'd find you down here. Not interrupting anything, am I?" 

Sirius feels his ears burn and is glad his hair is long enough to hide them from Remus, at least. Nothing stays hidden from Mad-Eye's mad eye. Remus simply quirks an eyebrow and brushes bread crumbs from his hands, though Sirius thinks he looks relieved, which does not bode well for his plans. 

With one quick glance around the kitchen Moody takes in the wine bottle, the glasses and the bubbling cauldron. "I see I'm in time for lunch."

Sirius dives back into the cabinets to find another glass and some bowls, more annoyed at Remus's obvious relief than at Moody's interruption. He should probably take it as a hint, but he's tired of half-spoken sentences, of trying to understand what Remus wants from the way he smiles or frowns or raises an eyebrow. He used to think they could communicate without words, but he obviously lost the skill long before he went to Azkaban, because he so misread everything those last six months. Now he's too impatient to relearn the language, wants to have everything out in the open. Doubt and fear breed in silence, and he refuses to make the same mistakes again. 

"Pull up a chair," Remus is saying while Moody eyes them suspiciously, but then, that's the way Moody does everything. "I'm glad you're here," Remus continues once Moody has settled into his chair. Remus folds his hands on the table and smiles, a predatory gleam in his eye. "I have a job for you."

***

The library is dark and cool even in the daytime, with grey December light filtering in through the high windows.

Sirius remembers quiet afternoons spent here, under his father's watchful eye, reading stories that made his skin crawl in disgust and delight, his mother seated in one of the leather wingchairs by the fire, Regulus playing with toy soldiers at her feet. It is one of the few good memories he has of the place. After his sorting, he spent most of his time in here being called on the carpet for his crimes, defying his father across the large mahogany desk that Remus has now appropriated as his own. He still read voraciously, mostly as an escape from the family, but locked up in his room or out in the yard. The library holds no welcome for him.

"Your instincts were right, Lupin," Moody says after he's given the room a thorough once-over with his magic eye. Sirius is about to open his mouth to say it's not Remus's instincts but his own knowledge of the house, but he doesn't. "This place is crawling with repellant magic." Moody cocks his head suspiciously. "Why haven't I seen this room before?"

"We only found it a fortnight ago," Remus says. "There was a concealment spell on it. Sirius knew it was here somewhere, but it took some searching."

Sirius isn't surprised the room was hidden. Much of what it contains is illegal. There are books in here people like Malfoy and Lestrange would kill -- have killed -- to own. Sirius never investigated his father's collecting habits, but he knows money is not the only ingredient that goes into building a collection such as this one. And Blacks have always protected their secrets. But nothing in the house can hide from him forever. It is keyed to his blood, and even as his mother's portrait shrieks curses at him, calling him an abomination, a blood traitor, the house will eventually yield all that's been hidden.

"Makes sense," Moody mutters before turning to the shelf in front of him and pointing. "See that?" Remus looks up and Moody says, "Not there." He jabs his finger in the air. "That red glow there, see that?"

"I haven't the benefit of a magic eye," Remus reminds him, and Sirius can hear the humor beneath the exasperation, even if Moody can't.

Sirius can't see it either, but he's fairly certain nothing in here is dangerous to him, so he says nothing.

Moody scowls and pulls out his wand. He mutters a few words, some sort of revealing spell as far as Sirius can tell, and suddenly the library is filled with strange, multi-colored glowing forms, edging along the bookshelves and hunting portraits, perching like fairy lights along the mantle. 

Remus nods and points in the direction Moody had indicated. "That?"

"That will give you a sting to singe the hair off your arm," Moody says grimly. He scans the room, scowling. "What we need isâ€¦there." He gestures to a shelf a foot away from Sirius's head, to a book whose binding glows a soft silvery blue. "Pull that out," he says to Sirius. Sirius lifts the book gingerly from the shelf; it hums against his fingers, the power in it palpable. "Bring it here."

Sirius obeys and lays the book on the desk, glad not to have to touch it anymore. They stand in a half-circle around it and Sirius has to fist his hands, which move of their own volition toward it.

Moody holds his wand an inch or so above it, as if uncertain on how to proceed.

"It's the key, but how---" Shaking his head, he pulls his wand back and reaches down with his other hand to open the book.

"I wouldn't--" Sirius starts, but he's too late.

With a loud bang and flash of light, Moody is thrown to the floor, sitting upright, legs sprawled out in front of him, grey hair standing on end.

Instead of blistering them both with curses, Moody laughs. "Now that's magic." 

Sirius shakes his head; the old man is as barmy as Dumbledore, but he's survived, and Sirius respects that.

Remus offers Moody a hand, but Moody ignores it. He rises slowly, eyes fixed on the book. "Haven't felt anything like that in a while. That's how you do it," he says with grudging admiration. "Put 'em on strong, make 'em to last." He turns to Sirius. "You open it."

Sirius doesn't want to touch it again -- not because he fears what happened to Moody. After all, he carried the thing over here, didn't he? But he's afraid of the pull it exerts on him, calling to something wild and cruel he thought he'd buried deep. The house has its dark secrets, and he has his, and he prefers his to remain hidden. Which is ridiculous really, because if anyone's seen the worst of him, it is the two men standing right here. 

Remus twitches almost unnoticeably, but Sirius, even half-distracted by the subvocal hum of power emanating from the book, is keenly aware of him. Remus would keep this from him if he could (maybe he's imagining that, but it heartens him, so he doesn't care), but he can't.

He grasps the cool leather cover lightly, flips it open. The letters, shining silver and black on the page, swim for a moment and he fears he's somehow lost the ability to read. He wants to cry out against such a loss, which would strip him of the only escape he has these days.

He bites his lip as Moody growls, "What does it say?" 

He bends forward for a closer look, hair falling into his eyes to be brushed impatiently away. "It says--" He frowns and flips ahead a few pages, the words starting to make sense, but only if he doesn't try too hard to read them. "I'm not sure, exactly. I think I know. It seems familiar, but alsoâ€¦not."

"There should be a way to neutralize these other spells."

"There is," he says slowly, the words forming before his eyes as he thinks about what he needs. His voice echoes strangely in his ears, as if he's speaking underwater. He speaks again, in a language he feels as if he's known forever, the words burning his throat.

Around them, the softly glowing lights fade to dim pinpricks, then flicker out like candles in a brisk wind. 

Moody whistles low, and Sirius is both proud and disgusted at the reaction. 

The silver glow of the book fades along with the others. The pages are yellowed and stained, the edges torn, the silvery glow of the letters now a dull black. Sirius closes the book with a muffled thump. The dark leather binding is deceptively ordinary.

Sirius picks it up carefully and deposits it back on the shelf it came from. He's tired; the urge to turn into Padfoot and curl up before the kitchen hearth is strong. "I think I've had enough of the Black family magic for one day," he says quietly. 

Moody shrugs. "In that case, destroy it. No sense leaving items like that around for anyone to find." In a voice that's probably meant to be gentle, he says, "You know your family wasn't exactly known for benevolent magic."

Sirius clenches his jaw, and swallows. Moody isn't saying anything he doesn't already know, hasn't said a million times himself. And he knows Moody isn't judging him. Still, his family ties condemned him once, and he feels he'll never be free of them, this house, their legacy. He wonders if he can ever give Harry a home, or if even away from Grimmauld Place and the poisonous influence of the Blacks, he will bollocks it up.

He has let the silence stretch, but Moody shows no sign of discomfort. Of course, he wouldn't. 

Sirius can feel Remus watching him, and he wants to believe Remus's eyes are full of warmth, but he can't force himself to meet them. 

Finally, Remus says, "We still need a spell for the cellar." 

"I'll take care of it," Moody says, waving a hand dismissively. "I have a blasting curse I've been wanting to test. You lot read through what's up here. Look up some protection spells." He scowls, and Sirius feels as though he's eighteen again, and back in Auror training. "You could use the practice." Moody gathers his robes in a swirl around him and Disapparates with a loud crack and whoosh of air. 

Being alone with Remus would normally please Sirius -- half an hour ago he was enjoying it immensely -- but right now he doesn't think he can take Remus's concern.

"Are you all right?" Remus asks, as if reading his mind but only half the message has got through. Sirius wants to snap at him, because of course he's not all right, none of them are and they haven't been since the day he listened to Peter's suggestions that maybe Remus wasn't on Order business when he went away, that maybe he'd got tired of being Dumbledore's tame werewolf and wanted more than the life he was barely scraping by with. 

Peter hadn't known they were together then. At least, Sirius didn't think so at the time. Now he wonders, because Peter knew exactly which buttons to push, and how hard to push them, and he saw more than any of them had ever given him credit for.

"It doesn't matter," Sirius says finally. He crosses his arms over his chest, longing for the warmth of the kitchen. "It's not like I didn't grow up in this house. Not much surprises me about it anymore."

"It's not--" Remus pauses, obviously searching for the right words. "It's not an unimportant thing."

He shrugs, hoping Remus will drop the subject. It's almost funny, how earlier he wanted nothing more than to have a serious discussion about all the things they've been avoiding, and now he just wants to get away and not discuss anything at all. 

Remus ignores his reluctance. "You're not your family, Sirius."

He knows, objectively, that this is true, that he's been distancing himself from them since he was eleven. It's not even the first time Remus has said it to him, though the last time was years before. But with the house crowding in around him, and the demonstration of Black magic he's just performed, he needs more assurance than Remus -- than anyone, really -- can give. 

He hesitates, unsure, then, "What did you think of them, the first time you met them?"

Remus gives him a small smile. "I was thirteen."

"Still."

"They were proud," he says slowly. "Intimidating. I don't think they thought much of your choice of friends."

Sirius snorts. "You've always been the master of understatement, Moony." The old nickname slides off his tongue easily, and he's glad of that, at least.

"I think," Remus pauses, and Sirius can almost see him weighing his words. "I think they loved you in their own way."

Sirius is startled, and a little wistful. He wishes he could believe that, thinks maybe he did believe it once, a long time ago, but he knows it isn't true. He shakes his head and says, "They didn't, Remus." 

He wants Remus to understand. There is no joking in his tone now. He is completely serious. They didn't love him. Maybe they never loved him. Not for himself anyway, not once he proved indifferent, and later, actively hostile to being the heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. And as much as he tells himself it never mattered, it did. Sometimes, it still does. 

He smiles sadly and looks away. "I minded that rather a lot. But it made it easier, in the end."

Remus opens his mouth -- he may think he understands, but he can't. Because the Lupins loved their son until the day they died, regardless of his condition, and Sirius used to envy him for it. Used to. Shit. Still does at moments like this, if he's honest with himself.

He straightens. Enough of this sentimentality. There is still work to be done. "Do you suppose there's anything worth looking up in here?" he asks before Remus can speak, scanning the rows of books with distaste.

Remus exhales audibly, though Sirius isn't sure if it's in relief or something else. "Likely there is," he says. "But I've had enough of books for today."

Sirius nods, and they head back to the kitchen in thoughtful silence.

*** 

**Day Three**

_Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,_  
 _Though thou in outer dark remain;_  
 _Palinode,_ James Russell Lowell

Sirius wakes shivering; the house is chilly at night, even through his fur. He rises and stretches, always somehow more satisfying on four legs, and pads down to the kitchen. It is very early, early enough to still be called late, but he knows he won't be sleeping any more tonight.

He tends the fire, leafs through a week's worth of the _Daily Prophet,_ finishing off yesterday's crossword. He dozes lightly, catches himself, and jerks awake before nightmares can take hold. 

Even in spring and summer, it's almost impossible to tell night from day in this house, but lately the weather has been atrocious. More often than not the windows show a scene dark with night or snow, winter having fallen early and hard this year. He watches the shadows dance along the walls, on the lookout for any of those creatures from the wine cellar, though he's mostly sure Moody destroyed them all with his new blasting curse. 

While he was in Azkaban, he was tortured with the worst of his memories, over and over again. Now, he torments himself by reliving the happier times -- playing Quidditch; standing up as best man for James and Lily; holding Harry; the first time he and Remus kissed.

This cold, grey December morning, he adds a new twist to things, imagining all the things he wants to do with Remus, kissing, touching, fucking. He is not surprised to find his cock already hard and aching. Wanking is one of the few things that still brings him pleasure during his dismal days. He slides down a little in his chair, spreads his legs, and imagines Remus kneeling between his thighs, soft brown hair brushing against his skin as his mouth trails higher, teasing with small kisses and licks at his sensitive flesh, circling his cock but not yet touching it.

He slips a hand beneath his robe and lets his head fall back, not caring that he's in the kitchen and should probably be ashamed. He was denied even this simple pleasure for twelve years; he takes advantage of the possibility now whenever he can.

In his fantasy, Remus has finally curled long, callused fingers around his cock, when he hears someone pounding on the front door.

He jumps out of the chair, wiping his hands on his robes, and hurries to the door before his mother wakes or Kreacher gets there.

Kingsley smiles grimly when he opens the door. It is not quite light yet, the sky a dull grey that reminds him of Azkaban.

"Good morning," he says, frowning. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Going on seven," Kingsley answers, following him into the hallway.

"Tea?"

"Please."

They walk down to the kitchen in silence and Kingsley settles at the table, running one hand over his bald scalp.

"I didn't wake you."

"I don't sleep much these days," Sirius answers shortly. 

Kingsley nods and doesn't press the subject. He's always been a good sort. They were at school together; Kingsley was in Ravenclaw, but not prissy and overly attached to rules, the way some Ravenclaws were. Damn fine Chaser, too. Remus mentioned he'd married a girl Sirius had pulled their sixth year, but Sirius can't remember her name. _Oh -- Adrianne. Adrianne Lescaux._ Pretty girl with nice tits; they'd messed around for a few weeks, back before he'd realized he preferred men.

"How are Adrianne and the kids?" he asks as he prepares the tea. He wonders if there's any coffee left from the summer. Hermione preferred it, and it smelled good. He thinks he may start drinking it instead of tea. 

Kingsley beams at him and Sirius can't help but smile back. "Ethan's a natural on a broom," he says proudly. "And Coraline is destined to break hearts." He pulls out his wallet, and Sirius is treated to the obligatory photos, first a wiry boy, maybe nine or ten -- he's terrible at guessing these things -- zooming around a well-kept yard on a racing broom, showing off for the camera, and then a lovely girl with intelligent dark eyes and her father's slow, infectious smile, appearing and disappearing behind a book.

"They're beautiful," Sirius says, and they are. His chest tightens, and he feels the old bitterness welling up. James should be here to show him pictures of Harry. Harry should have a younger sister or two, with Lily's red hair and fair face, and maybe a brother to play Quidditch with. He hands the pictures back, hoping Kingsley doesn't notice how his fingers tremble. "But you're not here to discuss the kids."

"No." Kingsley rubs his scalp again, and Sirius realizes he's not as calm as he pretends to be. He takes a deep breath and resolves to hang onto his temper. "Is Remus here?"

Of course. They always want to talk to Remus if he's available. 

"He's sleeping. You people are running him ragged." Kingsley nods, but Sirius is sure Remus will be woken before this conversation is over. "Well?" he prompts when Kingsley doesn't speak.

"We've an anonymous tip placing you in London." 

"Well, it's not as if I'm not," he answers, taking refuge in flippancy.

"Sirius--"

"Kingsley."

"I wish you'd take this seriously."

He opens and closes his mouth, tempted, and knowing it won't go over well. Finally he says, "Do you think I'm not?" Kingsley raises an eyebrow. "Fine, then. I am taking this seriously. What needs to be done?"

"While I don't think it's necessarily going to come to anything--"

"But I'm meant to take it seriously," he interrupts. "You'll have me jumping at my own shadow next." 

Kingsley sighs. "I know it must be hard for you--"

Sirius has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something scathing. Instead, he says, "You may as well wake Remus. I'm sure he needs to hear this, and it's easier if you tell us both together." _And let him growl at you for a change,_ he thinks, but doesn't say. Remus is notoriously hard to wake, and generally useless before his first cup of tea, though Sirius is fairly certain Kingsley doesn't know that. 

Kingsley goes to the door, and stops, looking uncertain. Sirius realizes he has no notion of where Remus sleeps. Why would he? He wonders if Kingsley knew, the first time around, that they were sleeping together. Not many people did, as far as Sirius can recall. In fact, Molly had tried her hand at a little matchmaking over the summer, not realizing that Remus would be far more interested in Bill than Tonks.

The thought of Molly discovering that makes him both smile and shiver in fear.

Kingsley shifts and Sirius realizes he's still waiting for an answer. "Oh. His room is off the library -- it's the door on the left wall."

While Kingsley is gone, he pushes his hair off his face, washes quickly, and puts the tea things on the table.

He's going mad stuck here in this house, and Kingsley thinks he knows what it's like? Sirius growls softly. While he knows it's stupid to resent Kingsley's ability to come and go, Kingsley's wife and children waiting at home for him, he does. It's not fair that Remus hasn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks, that Harry spends most of his time worrying about being killed by Voldemort, and is going to spend Christmas with the Weasleys instead of here (and Sirius can't blame him -- if he could go to the Burrow, he would), that James and Lily are dead and it's all his fault.

"Remus will be down shortly." Kingsley's deep, gentle voice jerks him out of his reverie. "Sirius?"

"I was thinking about what you said," he begins, trying to be tactful for once, "and I'm not sure why I ought to be fussed about it. It's not as if---" He breaks off when Remus enters the room, looking as if he hasn't had any sleep at all. "Morning."

Remus slips into one of the chairs, props his elbows on the table and rubs his eyes. "There isn't any tea, is there?"

"Steeping," Sirius says with a grin. Utterly useless without tea, Moony is.

"I think we should schedule these morning meetings in advance," Remus says.

"Blame Kingsley. These Ministry types do get up early."

"Most people are on their way to work at this hour," Kingsley cuts in dryly.

"As a fugitive from the law and an unemployed werewolf, we lead lives of leisure," Sirius answers wryly, earning a sleepy smile from Remus.

"How long have you been up?" 

Sirius shrugs. "Couple of hours." It's not quite a lie, even if Remus looks at him intently for a moment before resting his head in his hands again.

Sirius pours the tea and hands the mugs around. "Kingsley's brought us news," he says, jerking his head at Kingsley.

Remus looks up at Kingsley, steam from the tea wreathing his face. "So I gathered."

"One of my team members received an owl last night, with a note that Sirius had been sighted in London. Anonymous, of course."

"Were you able to head him off?" 

"I sent him to the other side of the city to search." Kingsley smiles, the gold hoop in his ear winking in the dim light. "I'm personally searching this area myself."

Sirius snorts but says nothing.

"Any precautions we should take, other than the usual?" Remus asks, rubbing his forehead. Sirius hates the circles under his eyes, hates that he's beginning to forget what Remus looks like without them.

"This is ridiculous," he interrupts, slamming his mug down on the table, sloshing tea over the sides, all attempts at tact forgotten. Remus eyes him warily. "So the Ministry knows I'm in London. You know they can't find me in this house."

"When you _stay_ in this house," Remus says pointedly.

Sirius shoots him a scathing look. "I already have one nagging mother to deal with, Remus." 

Kingsley coughs and rubs his scalp again, looking uncomfortable. "As I was trying to tell you before, I don't actually think this is anything too alarming. It may be tight for a few weeks, but I'll find a way to divert them. I've spoken with Dumbledore," Kingsley turns toward Remus, "and he suggests that we restrict movement in and out of the house. For a few days, at least."

Remus nods. "I haven't any trips planned. And there's nothing that can't keep."

"Good," Kingsley replies. "If anything comes up, send an owl--but only if it's absolutely necessary." He sets his mug down on the table and stands. 

"Will you stay for breakfast?" Remus asks. Sirius can't decide if he wants the company or not.

Kingsley shakes his head. "I shouldn't. The search teams will report in soon. Thank you for the tea, Sirius." 

"Any time." Sirius is sure his smile looks more like a teeth-baring grimace, but Kingsley doesn't let that faze him. Good man, even if Sirius is currently annoyed with him.

"I'll show you out," Remus says, rising. They leave and Sirius is alone again for the moment. His bad mood has evaporated. Remus is stuck in the house with him, and won't be going anywhere for days. _Days_. Sirius smiles for real this time, thinking of all the opportunities for mischief of the more personal kind this will present.

Remus comes back and slides into his chair, taking a long drink of tea. Sirius sits next to him, forcing his face into a neutral expression.

"Terrible news," he says, trying not to laugh.

"You're just pleased you're not the only one stuck here."

"It will do you good," Sirius says in the same condescending tone the others often use with him, as though his twelve years in prison have left him a halfwit. "See how the other half live. Anyway, I imagine there's loads of work to be done." He knows Remus has reports to sort through, letters to write, and the library awaits.

Remus nods slowly, but Sirius recognizes the glint in his eyes. 

"That's all true," Remus says, a slow grin curling his thin lips. "Then again, there's wizard chess in the drawing room."

Sirius can't keep from grinning back, and he enjoys the feel of it on his face. Things are finally looking up.

***

He can tell how exhausted Remus is by how badly he plays. They'd been evenly matched in their younger days, and both better than James, who just hadn't had the patience for it. Sirius hadn't played with Harry over the summer, so he doesn't know if Harry shares his father's impatience, but Ron gave him a few good games. He imagines them sitting by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, much as he and Remus used to. He thinks he may give Ron a chess set for Christmas. 

He uses his old set of chessmen -- white, because even then he had to be different -- while Remus plays with Regulus's men, both sets dug out of the attic a few days after they moved in, dusty grey and buried under old photo albums and cracked china. His had been a gift from Regulus, and secretly, he'd loved them, wanted to take them to school and show them off, but he never had. He'd left them behind when he ran away, one of the few possessions he wished he'd been able to take. He wonders if Regulus had used them after he was gone, and if his mother buried both sets in the attic to remove all reminders of her lost sons from her sight.

He still wonders, on occasion, if there was anything he could have done to make her love him, but he pushes those thoughts away. Love was not an emotion in which Blacks indulged. Anger, hatred, lust and greed, yes. Simple love of one's children, no. At least, that's what he'd grown up believing. He was different. 

He is different.

He loved James. Loves Harry. Loves Remus. He is capable of feeling this sensation that makes his chest tighten and his eyes sting at the oddest moments, like when Remus bites his lower lip, brow furrowed, absently pushing his too-long fringe out of his eyes as he contemplates the chessboard.

Remus is muttering something about his bishop being eviscerated, but Sirius isn't listening. He's staring at the board, stealing glances at Remus when he can. The look of concentration is back on Remus's face, long fingers rubbing his chin as he tries to figure out his next move. He's already lost, and Sirius is fairly certain he knows it, but he will go down fighting. He always has.

Sirius is more interested in what will happen when the game is over.

Remus moves his queen out, but it does no good. Two moves later, his king is taken, the game ended. He smiles ruefully. "I used to be able to beat you at chess. Half the time, anyway."

"Your strategies are sound," Sirius replies as he resets the pieces on the board until they stand straight and whole, eager for the next battle. "You just don't always follow through."

It's not something anyone would ever say about Sirius, and it's not something he'd want them to. 

Remus stands and crosses to the window. Grey light filters in through grimy windows and yellowed curtains, throwing his face into sharp relief.

"It's raining," he says, as if the world outside makes any difference to them here.

Sirius rises slowly from his chair and takes a deep breath. He thinks of his morning fantasy, his resolve to do things differently this time, to not muck it all up by being afraid, by keeping silent. Now is as good a time as any to put it to the test. They will have days to themselves, and he doesn't want to waste any more time, not when they've lost so many years already, because of his doubt and fear.

He walks over to Remus, puts slightly trembling hands on his shoulders. He can see their reflection in the window, and they look old, older and more worn than they should. He's still not used to the gaunt hollows of his own face, nor the grey in Remus's hair.

He can feel Remus breathe beneath his hands, feel his shoulders relax. Sirius leans forward and places a gentle kiss on the nape of his neck, inhaling the scent of soap and sweat that makes his heart race and his cock hard. He pushes aside the soft brown hair curling over Remus's collar, lips moving over skin. He darts his tongue out to taste, one hand trailing over the planes of his back.

He kisses his way up Remus's neck to the sensitive spot beneath his ear, smiling as Remus shivers from the touch. "Come on, Remus," he whispers. "It could be days before we're interrupted." 

Remus ducks his head and laughs, and Sirius remembers the first time they did this, Remus's disbelief and his own desperate attempts to convince him it was a good idea. He hopes he hasn't lost the skill, because Remus isn't exactly falling into his arms. Remus turns and looks at him, head cocked to the side, brow furrowed in thought. He lifts a lock of Sirius's long dark hair, then lets it fall. "It's hard to get used to you like this."

"I'm not so different," Sirius says. "Neither are you, if you think about it. Not in the ways that really matter." He brushes the back of his hand along Remus's cheek.

"A lot has happened. We're not kids anymore."

"I should hope not," Sirius says, thinking, _I won't make the same mistakes again,_ and kisses him on the mouth.

It's strange, awkward, as if they've never done it before instead of having had years of practice a lifetime ago. He can feel Remus withdrawing, and that's exactly what he doesn't want. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, and Remus moans into his mouth, his body responding the way Sirius hoped.

Then he pushes Sirius away. "Wait." They're both breathing heavily. 

Now that he can feel Remus against him, can taste and smell him, he doesn't want to stop for anything. But he knows Remus well enough to know what's coming next, so he asks. It's expected. "For what?" 

Remus glances around the room, and Sirius can see him thinking, adding up all the reasons this is a really bad idea. 

"We're not having sex on the drawing room floor," is what he comes up with, surprising Sirius a little. As objections go, it's rather weak, which gives him hope.

"My mother bought that rug from a Turkish wizard," Sirius says. He neglects to mention how he used to believe it was a flying carpet, and spent hours trying to make it fly. He doesn't think Remus would appreciate the thrill of attempting to have sex while hovering three feet off the floor. He also thinks mentioning his mother may be a mistake, but he pushes on with the conversation anyway. "I'm sure it's quite comfortable. Besides," he says, moving his hand just a little, brushing over Remus's erection and feeling him shiver in response, remembering what Remus likes even while he's not consciously thinking of it, "by the time we move to the bedroom, you'll have thought all this through and decided it's not a good idea, and where will that leave us?"

Remus nods, obviously trying not to smile. "It is, in fact, a terrible idea," he says, but his hands are curling in the fabric of Sirius's robes, pushing him back against the windowsill, and Sirius knows he's won. "Oh, hell," Remus says, and slides his tongue into Sirius's mouth. 

This is what Sirius has been waiting for, and he holds still for a few moments, wanting to absorb it all -- the feel of Remus's thin body under his hands, the sharp blades of his shoulders and firm curve of his arse, the rasp of wool sliding against sensitive skin as they fumble with each other's robes. His back is against the cold glass of the window, but Remus's chest is warm against his, Remus's hands lighting fire under his skin.

They stumble to the carpet, and Remus pushes him to the floor. Once there, he draws Remus down to him, and they move together, hips thrusting. It's more awkward than he remembers, but it's been fourteen years, so he supposes that's to be expected. They are a tangle of limbs, rolling about on the floor in their attempts to get as close as possible. They settle facing each other, finally, and Remus leans in, trapping Sirius's hair beneath his arm. Sirius gasps at the pain.

"Sorry," Remus mumbles against his neck. 

Sirius laughs. "S'okay. Just--" Remus does something with his mouth that Sirius had forgotten and he can't breathe at all for a moment. "God," he manages, and feels Remus's answering laugh vibrating against him.

The rug is not as comfortable as he claimed, and the floor beneath is hard and cold, but he doesn't care. They've managed to remove each other's robes, his leg is draped over Remus's, and his hand is wrapped around Remus's cock, hard, hot and slick, as Remus jacks him in return. They kiss as if kisses are air, hungry and desperate, and they speak in short, broken gasps that are easily understood. _God. Please. There. Yes._ They surge together, reaching for release, for that one moment of freedom, the only freedom he has these days.

Then he hears a roaring in his ears and the world goes white, his body shuddering in pleasure as he comes in Remus's hand, against Remus's body, with Remus's tongue in his mouth.

He's still floating when Remus groans and comes, whispering his name. 

They lie quietly for a while, reacquainting themselves with each other's bodies. Remus has new scars marring his skin, from the years he spent alone, before the Wolfsbane potion was available and he didn't have Pomfrey or Sirius to heal him up after full moon nights.

"Even hospitals charge money, Sirius," he says dryly when questioned. Sirius growls low at the thought of Remus alone and unable to heal himself or get help, soothed only by Remus's hands stroking his skin, almost idly. He can't keep his hands to himself either; he slips his fingers through Remus's hair, along the strong column of his neck, lips playing over the stubbled skin of his jaw. 

They're not as young as they once were, but they manage, and Sirius kisses his way down Remus's body, licking at scars old and new, trailing fingers lightly over the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs before swirling his tongue over the head of his cock. Remus groans, fingers tangling in Sirius's long hair. Sirius slowly slides his lips down the shaft, feeling his own cock beginning to harden again. He laughs in sheer joy, and the vibrations make Remus moan. He sucks and licks and laughs again as Remus writhes beneath him until he comes hard. Sirius has a few tense moments as he swallows, wondering if he can handle it, but he does, body memory rescuing him once more.

Remus kisses and strokes him until he's coming again, and it's better than flying, the way the world drops away and leaves them alone.

They kiss and touch eagerly, though with less urgency now that the first sharp pangs of desire have been sated, hands and lips relearning old territory anew, as the morning slips away. Sirius rests his head on Remus's shoulder, imagining the possibilities inherent in the big claw-footed tub in the second floor bathroom as he drifts off into a light doze.

When he wakes, it has stopped raining, and weak December sunshine seeps into the room through the filmy curtains.

Remus is stroking his hair again, and studying him intently.

"What?" he asks self-consciously, brushing at his mouth with the back of his hand. When he used to fall asleep in class, he'd occasionally woken up to the uncomfortably moist, slithery feeling of drool trickling down his chin, but it's been years since that happened.

"You never did write me," Remus says eventually.

Sirius looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Did that bother you?"

"Not really," Remus says, though Sirius thinks he may be lying. It's so hard to tell, even for him, because Remus is a consummate liar, and he's only improved at it in the years they've been apart. "I figured that if you'd been caught by the dementors I'd have heard about it. Read about it in the _Prophet._ 'Sirius Black found dead on pile of coconuts. Ministry baffled.'"

"I don't think the dementors ever leave Britain," Sirius says, some of his good mood disappearing into defensiveness. He _should_ have written. He just hadn't been sure Remus wanted to hear from him, and then he'd spent all his energy not getting caught, and then looking out for Harry. "Besides, it's not as if you didn't have important Voldemort-fighting business of your own to take care of." 

"Not much," Remus says, shaking his head. "There wasn't a lot I could do." 

"Then I suppose we were both in the same situation." Though he wishes Remus could have been with him, helped him -- maybe together they could have protected Harry. He closes his eyes and tightens his hold on Remus, laying his head on his chest. The steady rhythm of Remus's heartbeat calms him slightly, and the darkness recedes.

Sirius's stomach growls loudly before Remus can say anything else. 

Remus smiles and changes the subject. "Can you reach my robes? We should still have food in the kitchen."

They clean up and dress, and head down to the kitchen, which is dark and damp, the fire from earlier gone out. Sirius starts it up again with a wave of his wand as Remus puts the kettle on.

He's staring at the sad lack of food in the pantry, wondering if a craving for General Tso's chicken is enough of an emergency to risk sending an owl, because he doesn't think he can face Molly's pheasant stew again, when Remus says, "Should we talk about this?" 

"Talk about what?" As far as he's concerned, it's settled, and whichever room Remus sleeps in, Sirius will be sleeping next to him from now on. 

He wrinkles his nose at the container of coagulated stew. Not the most appetizing lunch, but he can't find anything else. Sadly, he thinks the rest of the Order would frown upon his breaking their self-imposed silence for Chinese takeaway, and gives up the idea. "Do you think the stew's still good?"

"Is there any left?" Remus asks, surprised. 

"Some. I don't remember replacing the preserve spell." He shrugs and puts it over the fire anyway. "It can't kill us. I hope."

The kettle whistles. Remus is faffing about with the teapot, looking calmer and more relaxed than he has in ages. A mid-morning shag is obviously just what they both needed. Perhaps after lunch they can have a mid-afternoon buggering. His cock twitches in approval. He'll have to suggest it as they eat. The kitchen table is sturdy, will hold their weight. 

"Didn't you ever wonder," Remus asked, pouring water into the teapot, "how everything might have turned outâ€¦differently?" Sirius blinks. Remus is turned away, so he can't see the shock Sirius is sure is written across his face. Did he ever _wonder_? What does Remus think he did every miserable sodding day in Azkaban, but torture himself with how things could have been different? He says nothing. There is nothing he _can_ say. He wants to laugh. It's not like Moony to be so thoughtless. Maybe it's a good sign. 

"Because you know it's not the same now," Remus continues, oblivious. "We can't pretend we can go back."

He glances over his shoulder and Sirius grins at him, shaking his head. "You're quite mad, you know. Of course we can't go back. Did you think that's what this was?"

Remus shrugs and puts the kettle down. "It would be easier in some ways. If that's all it was."

"Maybe," Sirius replies, unconvinced. Things can be better than they ever were before, if Remus will give him the chance. He glances down at the pot over the fire. "I think this is ready."

They eat in silence, and Sirius notices Remus no longer separates his food. Of course, the whole point of stew is that everything is mixed together, but Remus spoons extra gravy over his potatoes, and while he still pushes the carrots off to the side, he otherwise cleans his plate.

Sirius wonders if perhaps he was premature in hoping for more than what Remus has already given. He's lost his appetite, and simply pushes the food around on his plate. He almost gets up to get the bottle of wine they opened yesterday, but thinks better of it. He needs a clear head.

Sirius starts fidgeting as Remus calmly sips his tea.

"Is that--" he begins. 

"I really should write up this report for Dumbledore," Remus says at the same time.

Sirius nods, biting his lower lip. He doesn't let his shoulders slump until Remus is gone. He rests his head in his hands for a few moments, and thinks longingly of wine and the taste of Remus on his tongue.

He washes up by hand, because it's something to do, and he needs the distraction. He hums to himself, an old Muggle song Lily used to sing, though he's not sure of the words anymore, or the title. He laughs grimly to himself. He probably has the tune wrong, as well. He hums anyway; he can always ask Remus later if he's got it right.

He remembers Moony's old record player, dropping a needle onto the black vinyl as it spun hypnotically, the pure sexual howl of Robert Plant's voice, the angry kick of Pete Townsend's guitar. For Christmas the year before everything went to hell, he'd gone with Lily to the record shop and bought a copy of _London Calling_ for Remus. He wonders if he kept it, afterward.

If there were some way to run electricity in the house, he'd buy it again, and a stereo to play it on. Maybe Harry can help him out there, or Hermione. She's a clever girl, and Muggle-born so she'll know what he's talking about.

He finishes the dishes and rummages through the larder again, noting that there is more bread, some cheese, and some eggs left, so they won't starve, though he's a lousy cook. Molly won't let them go hungry, will send them a fine Christmas dinner. Well, she won't let Remus starve, anyway. He's not so sure about himself. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly worried. Surely Remus won't let him spend the holidays alone.

He laughs out loud at that. He's turning into a nervous old woman. Maybe Great-Aunt Araminta's spirit is haunting him in his sleep.

Remus won't abandon him at Christmas. And what's more, if he recalls correctly, there are a ton of decorations up in the attic. His mother had liked Christmas, liked the gift-giving and the revival of ancient traditions. He himself had always enjoyed it, as a young child, before he'd been ostracized by the rest of the family; he remembers happy mornings around an enormous tree, and a rare smile on his father's face, while his mother sang carols. Later, there were stony silences amid the sumptuous parties, harsh words and the back of his mother's hand across his mouth, things the expensive presents they gave him could never make up for. But he escaped to the Potters' and never looked back, recapturing the warmth of those earlier Christmases and replacing bad memories with good ones.

He's in the attic before he realizes he's made the decision, pushing trunks and boxes, and one very large tailor's mannequin, out of the way in his search for the decorations that used to brighten even this old mausoleum. The attic smells like dust and the remnants of very old magic, and he sneezes a few times before he mutters, " _Scourgify_." Which only takes care of the immediate vicinity. He sighs and resigns himself to the dust and grime. 

He will definitely be visiting the second floor bathroom with the claw-footed tub after this, with or without Remus.

He locates the boxes of decorations, the faint scent of pine still clinging to them, even after all these years, and starts sorting through them. Some of the ornaments are broken, some are faded, some are too ugly to see the light of day, but there are enough still in decent shape to make a start. 

When he unwraps a bundle of tissue paper, finding a small clay star, painted blue and covered in silver glitter, his name written on it in shaky script of blue glitter, he sits back on his heels in shock.

He remembers sitting with Andromeda at the kitchen table, drinking hot cocoa after being out in the snow all afternoon. She asked if he wanted to do something fun, make something special for his mum for Christmas. He couldn't have been more than eight at the time, and she was a very mature sixteen. He'd looked up at her with awe and said, of course. Regulus, a snuffling and clumsy six, had joined them as well.

He'd been so proud of his handiwork, and his mother had fussed over her sweet boys, her bright stars.

He can't believe she kept it, even buried up here amongst the rubbish. It gives him hope, oddly enough, and strengthens his belief that he is not like her, that he can be all the things she wasn't as he grew up.

On the other hand, it's possible she just didn't know it was there, and so it escaped unscathed when she destroyed everything else that had belonged to him. 

Either way, he takes it as a sign that things will get better, and tucks it into the pocket of his robe as he hears footsteps on the stairs. 

"Remus, give me a hand with this."

Remus picks his way carefully across the attic floor, nearly tripping over a wooden chair with two legs missing. He catches himself on a low-slung beam and slips to his knees beside Sirius, who covertly admires the graceful way he moves, even while almost falling. 

"What is this?"

"Christmas decorations. I thought there might be some tucked away up here. My mother liked Christmas. Not for the 'good will to men,' you understand," he says wryly.

Remus picks up a silver bauble with the head of a snake etched on its surface. The snake hisses and bares its fangs at him. He drops it back into the box, raises an eyebrow.

"We'll leave those. But there are some lessâ€¦hazardous decorations." He pulls out a knotted pile of silver tinsel, and a box of red and gold baubles painted with milder scenes of snowy houses. "There should be more streamers in here, too."

They find the streamers, and Sirius adds them to his mounting pile. Tinsel clings in staticky clumps to Remus's robes, and Sirius can't help but smile.

"You're looking mighty festive."

Remus snorts. "We need a tree." 

Sirius nods. "I suppose that will have to wait." He's okay with that, though. It's something to look forward to, and Merlin knows, he's got nothing else.

Remus smiles at him, reaches over and pushes the hair out of his eyes. Sirius feels flushed from the warmth of his touch. "What were you going to say?"

"What? When?"

"At lunch. I-- You started to say something and I interrupted, which was very rude of me."

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Lupin," Sirius says, laughing, his stomach fluttering nervously. "I just -- I was going to say, is that what you want?"

Remus cocks his head thoughtfully, and Sirius holds his breath, nervous and hopeful and more than a little itchy from all the dust they're raising.

"No," Remus says, finally. "It isn't."

Sirius exhales in relief, turning back to the boxes of ornaments to hide it. Remus knows anyway, puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. 

They are quiet for a moment, then Remus finds an empty box and begins filling it with the decorations they've set aside. 

"Let me help you carry these downstairs," he says, and Sirius smiles. 

Everything's going to be all right.

END


End file.
